


Here, Have My Soul

by TyJax_Fanfiction (TyJax_EeOwen)



Series: James "Bucky" Barnes ---> Pairings [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awesome Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Tears, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Wants To Hug Bucky Barnes, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Kid Clint Barton, M/M, Tears, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, fuck hydra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyJax_EeOwen/pseuds/TyJax_Fanfiction
Summary: “I wanna fix your Soul,”A Weapon had no Soul. An Asset had no Soul. It was told over and over that it had no Soul. Why did the voice think it did? Even after being told by it itself.“I don’t-... have one,”“You do. I know you do. You feel. Even if it’s Hurt, you still feel something and you’d need a Soul for that,”It-... it didn’t. It didn’t have a Soul. Not after all this time. It had no Soul. He didn’t have a Soul. It had nothing. It didn’t have a Soul.“I’m gonna fix your Soul, you understand?”“I’m gonna fix it. Hold onto mine until then,”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story concept by: [redsector-a](redsector-a.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Soulmate AU where you hear the voice of your soulmate in your mind once you’re both at least 5 years old - young innocent Clint Barton telling the Winter Soldier that he can share Clint’s soul ‘cause they’re soulmates, when the Soldier insists he doesn’t have one.

\---------- Clint’s Five //1976

The Asset could hear the voices, the loud, commands and insults and warnings and threats. The voices of the Heads that Commanded it to kill, maim, take out targets and witnesses. It wasn’t phased. It was never phased. Being phased was a weakness, it meant it was corrupted, compromised.

There was arguments of how its mission was executed. Its target wasn’t in place, it couldn’t take the shot. It waited and waited, and one of its handlers took it, made a mess of things, a witness got away and was later taken out. The operation was a fail waiting to happen and it was taking the brunt of the Head’s rath. The man yelling and insulting it for poor execution in the field. The Handler had blamed it, along with the team and it didn’t talk back. It didn’t need to. It wouldn’t. It felt nothing of the actions against him. _It felt nothing._

“Re-Freeze the Asset,” the Head ordered and it was abruptly turned, directed towards the clean room, white everywhere, Lab coats everywhere. It was familiar, but it shrugged it off. No thought. It had no thoughts. It didn’t need thoughts.

The Lab Coats rounded it, checking it over and injecting it with fluids before it was stripped and left in only undergarments. It was directed towards a big Ice Box, a cold shudder drawing at the back of its neck. It was familiar too. It was forced into the box, limbs being strapped in and it watched as the big door closed, voices muffled on the outside as they pressed buttons and pulled levers. It felt the cold intensify, freezing up its limbs and body. Colder and colder and it was panting slightly, puffs of air being seen as everything iced over.

Not long and it felt the cold freeze through it, taking minutes, and then hours, and then days and weeks. Time was passing again, its body-clock counting. It was awake in the ice, it had nothing to do but think, but thinking was unnecessary. It didn’t think. It followed orders. So it didn’t think, it counted.

It counted the hours, the days, the weeks, the number of times it saw the faces, familiar and unfamiliar pass through its mind, blood exploding on their faces as it took the shot. The same faces, over and over, some up close, some not. Dates came with the faces.

January 13th, 22nd, 1953. August 20th, 1953. February 15th, 1957. February 20th, 25th, 29th, 1960. April 30th, 31st, 1961. November 22nd, 1963.

_“...-lo?”_

March 9th, 10th, 1967. September 11th, 1972. June 14th, 15th, 16th, 28th, 1976.

_“...-llo?”_

More dates. More faces. More…. Nothing. The faces and dates were targets, witnesses. Its Missions. No more, no less. It wasn’t meant to think more or less. They tell it _Who_ it was supposed to be. _How_ it was supposed to think. _What_ it was supposed to do. It didn’t do any of these without a say so.

_“...-ello?”_

The voices told it what was and is, not what it used to be or was before they made it. It was supposed to listen, take orders, no questions. It was a weapon. It had no voice, no thoughts, feelings, needs, wants, sense, mind… _Soul._

_It had no Soul._

_It has no Soul._

_“I don’t have a soul,”_

It could feel the warm burn of something wet in its eye, slowly heating the ice in that area and it left him, running down its frozen cheek. Why was it crying? It couldn’t feel, couldn’t think. So why cry over something that shouldn’t phase it?

_“...-ant to share mine?”_

It felt the tear still running, burning in contrast to the ice and then it froze against it, melting into the ice that trapped it and made it feel as cold. It was confused, compromised. It shouldn’t think or feel. So why think and cry?

_“I don’t have a Soul,”_

It hurt. It felt pain when the thought was there. It shouldn’t think, but it felt. It wanted to feel. It could only feel when it was alone. It wanted to, but it wasn’t allowed. Feeling was weakness.

_“Then share mine,”_

It stopped thinking, stopped feelings. It heard the voices, soft and gentle in its head. Another burn of a tear. It didn’t understand the words, didn’t under the voices _want_ to share with it. Share a Soul. How? Why?

It wasn’t meant to think, but-. No, but. It wasn’t meant to think.

 _“You can share my Soul,”_ the voice again. Soft and gentle in its head, in its ear, in its mind. It had no Soul, the voice wanted to share. _“We’ll find yours,”_ the voice added. _“What’s your name? I’m Clinton,”_

 _Clinton._ A soft, gentle voice, _Clinton._

\---------- Clint’s Ten //1981

More voices, louder, deeper, yelling. Buttons pressing and levers being pulled. It could feel the ice cracking and melting against its skin.

 _“Name?”_ it asked, unsure. It didn’t know. What was a name? What was its? Asset? Weapon? It?

It was taken to the chair, it was sat down, a bite between its teeth and its mind was wiped again. Pain, electricity burning its mind and drawing scream after scream from its lungs. The Head watched on, the Lab Coats bustling around it and reading sheets and monitors while it was strapped down and put through familiar pain and torture. It started fading, thoughts, voices, memory. What was a name?

A name was nothing.

Another Mission, another insult, another Report, another checkup. It was stripped down again, to nothing but its underwear and it was injected again, fluids streaming from a syringe and into its veins, sending cold shivers through its muscle. It was lifted and directed to the icebox, a shudder leaving the back of its neck as it was forced inside. Buttons and levers and the ice was biting at it, freezing it, covering its limbs, body and skin until it was standing there, staring out with cold, dead eyes at the Lab Coats running around, the room going dark as he was left there, alone. _Alone._

Alone again, in ice and the bitter cold. Time moving again, more weeks and months. Slow and cold, freezing his skin.

May 24th, 25th, 1978. January 7th, 1981. Both added to the list of faces that haunted it, made it feel more alone, colder. It was wrong, but it couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell, couldn’t think for itself or it would be reprimanded. It was programmed not to think, but to act.

No thought was allowed, no feeling. It was dark, so dark. The faces flashed in front of him, dates and blood following, smearing the faces. It was its fault. It caused pain, it hurt, it maimed. It was a monster, a weapon. It killed and it deserved the torment, the torture. It deserved the faces as a reminder that it was bad. That it hurt and killed. Somewhere, it knew that it shouldn’t, shouldn’t hurt.

It was alone, the faces were the past. The Past coming back to bite it. Missions, ghosts. Its ghost... _His_ ghosts. It hated them. It was scared of them. They scared it. They shouldn’t scare it. It had no feelings, no emotion. So why?

_It was Scared._

_So scared._

_“I’m Scared,”_

Scared. A feeling, emotion. It didn't want emotions. It shouldn’t have emotions. Why? Why did it have emotions and why was it scared? It didn't want to be scared. It didn’t like it. It didn’t like feeling scared.

_“I’m here. Don’t be Scared,”_

A burn in his eye and a wet feeling drew at the corner, making it confused. Crying. It was crying. Why was it crying? It was scared, lonely. But it didn’t want the Lab Coats there. It didn’t want the Head there, or the Handlers.

_“I’m alone,”_

It wanted… _wanted…_ It wanted someone safe. It wanted to not feel scared or alone. The burn of the tear drew down its cheek, freezing into the cold that covered its jaw.

_“You’re not alone,”_

A voice. Soft, gentle in its mind. Why was it soft and gentle? Why was it like that with it? No voice was like that to it.

 _“I’m Clint,”_ so soft and gentle. _Kind._ The voice was kind to it.

Soft. Gentle. Kind. No one had ever been that to it. It wanted to keep hearing it, the voice. It wanted to keep the voice in its mind, something that belonged to it. A voices Kindness. It was better than the nightmares, the faces and blood. Better than what it was and is. Better. The voice was better than anything.

_“What’s your name?”_

A name? A name. Another tear. It didn’t know the answer. What was the answer? How could it answer?

_“I-... don’t know,”_

Not an answer. Not the best. Not the kindest. It didn’t know. The voice deserved better than that answer.

_“Well, Mr. You’re still sharing my Soul, you’ll never be alone,”_

Kind. Another tear lifting from its lids, running down its cheek and freezing. Why was the voice kind? Why was the voice making him think and feel? It shouldn't feel. It shouldn’t think. It shouldn’t-... It shouldn’t.

\---------- Clint’s fifteen //1986

It heard buttons being pressed, levers being pulled and the ice began to withdraw from it, melting against it. It opened its eyes to see the big metal door open. It stopped thinking on impulse, staring ahead as it was drawn out, redressed and was sent to the chair, being sat and strapped for more pain, more torture of losing its minds. More _Pain._

Another mission. Another target and witness dead. Another job executed to the Head’s liking. But there was more yelling directed at it, a beating, a punch landing full-force square in its face and it wasn’t meant to fight back. It stood and took the hit, face only aching for a second before it healed. It didn’t know what was wrong, if the mission was compromised. If IT was compromised. The Head just seemed angry. It wasn’t meant to speculate, it wasn’t meant to think. It stopped.

It was taken to the Lab, stripped and it waited, watching the Lab Coat with the syringe and felt the cold liquid spread through its arm. It was forced into the icebox and stood there, waiting for the door to close and the buttons to be pressed, the levers to be pulled. It was cold, its body freezing over, clouding everything. It couldn’t move, could barely see. It was frozen in time.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months. Silence. It was quiet, freezing, lonely… dark. The lights were off, the Lab letting it sleep until it was called on. It didn’t like it. It wasn’t meant to like or dislike. It was meant to not think. But It couldn’t not think when it had this time. They didn’t think that it was alive in the ice, that it could still breathe like this.

It could.

But it wasn’t meant to say. It wasn’t meant to speak.

It couldn’t ask the Lab to take away the nightmares. The faces, the blood and fear it drew from it. Another few faces, the ones it killed this time. They stared back, telling it that it was its fault they were dead.

It was its job. Its mission. But they still blamed it, blamed it for their death. It was its fault.

_“It’s my fault,”_

Wetness in its eye, seeping out over the ice covering its face. It was its fault. All of it. Deaths, the deaths were its fault.

_“It’s not your fault,”_

It was. It was all its fault. It pulled the trigger, killed the targets. Orders it obeyed and it killed them, took them down and it felt nothing as it happened, as it was taken from the field.

_“It’s my fault,”_

Another tear, another following soon after. Tears. It was crying. Why was it crying? It shouldn’t feel. It shouldn’t cry.

_“It’s not. It’s not your fault,”_

The voice. Familiar, kind, gentle and soft. Why was it there? Why was it in its mind? The voice didn’t understand, It didn’t understand the voice. The voice saw nothing. It didn’t see it kill, didn’t see it for what it was.

_“I’m a monster,”_

Another tear and they were falling, tear after tear after tear. Why was it crying like this? It felt heavy, hurt. It shouldn’t feel any of that.

_“You’re not. Listen to me,”_

The tears were still running, but it stopped to listen, its mind going blank to hear the kind voice clearly. It felt so lost, so scared and lonely and hurt. It regretted. It killed and it felt regret. Why did it have to feel? Why did it feel? It didn’t want to feel.

_“You’re not a Monster. You’re a man. You’re Human, like the rest of us. We all do things that we’re not proud of,”_

It spoke like it spoke from experience. It couldn’t though. Not _Its_ experience. No one had its experience.

_“Why?”_

It was lost. It didn’t know why, or how. It was just… confused, compromised.

_“Because we are what we are,”_

The voice sounded disappoint, not in it, but in something else. It didn’t understand, but it was… the voice, it was almost comforting like it knew what it was, what it was capable of. What _Humans_ were capable of.

_“I’m… not human,”_

Another tear, they slowed, the voice was soft, kind and gentle still-... _Still?_

_“Then what are you?”_

The voice didn’t sound like it was asking. It wasn’t asking what it was, it was like it knew what it was. Or it understood why it called itself a monster. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t sure. It didn’t-...

_“I don’t know,”_

\---------- Clint’s Twenty //December 16th, 1991

When it was drawn from the ice, the Head was there, standing and talking as it was dressed and prepped for the chair. A smile was on his face, smug, dark and dangerous. It didn’t like that smile. It wasn’t meant to like it. It wasn’t meant to like anything.

“I have a special mission for you tonight, Asset,” his voice grated and it listened, stopped thinking, stopped feeling as it was directed to the chair, the faces and chill following it. It was sat down and strapped in, sent through the pain, screams leaving its throat and chest and lungs. So much pain, so much more pain.

It was let out, _alone_ on a bike, following a road and a car way ahead. It knew what it was doing, knew its parameters and knew why it was sent after this target. It sent the car aside, crashing into the trees and fence. It drove passed and turned, heading back to the car to take the target and witnesses out and retrieve a package. It wasn’t informed of the contents. It climbed off of the bike, heading over to the driver side where the target was climbing out, injured. It walked over, grabbing him by his hair and forced him to look up.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Howard,” a voice inside, a person… a _witness._ It stared down at the target, its metal fist pulling back and it catapulted forward, dead centre of his face, again and again and again, breaking muscle, bone and life. The Witness in the car continuing to call to the man it’d just killed gradually began crying as she kept calling.

It let the body fall, watching it drop lifelessly. A few lingering moments and it dragged the body to the car, lifting it in and setting it up so that it looked like an accident. Those were the parameters of their deaths.

It left him there and it rounded the car until it was at the Witnesses side of the car, it reached in, hand wrapping around her throat and it tightened its grip, holding her breath there, cutting off air and it waited and waited until it felt her slacken, sensed for life, but nothing. It’d drained it from the both of them and stopped.

It cut the camera-feed above and took the case from the trunk of the car, setting it on its bike before returning to its rendezvous point.

\-----

“Well done, Soldier,” praise meant nothing more than a sign that it wouldn’t be beaten or hit. It stood there for a moment longer, listening to the Heads boasting and smug cheers of the deaths and that he now had a case with unknown contents to the Asset.

As soon as it was dismissed, it headed to the Lab, Coats following and directing it. It was stripped, injected with fluids and ordered to step into the ice box, a cold chill running up the back of its neck. It stepped in and felt the cold bite at it, the door closing and it watched as the cold increased, buttons and levers being pulled. And soon, it was left in a silent, dark and cold room, alone with nothing but just that.

It was quiet, no sound, only silence and darkness as it stood in the frozen box, mind left to nothing, body left to nothing but being still until it was time to thaw it out again. And it did, it stood silently, mind and body for the longest time as minutes became hours and hours became days and days became weeks-.

It stood there, a flash appearing in its mind and then a face, bloody and beaten, broken from where it punched repeated, unfamiliar before, but now familiar. Beaten and broken like the others that had the same parameters.

It was added to the faces and it was more prominent, staring back at him with hurt, betrayal and the name repeated from before left his mouth, pulling at something so deep down inside that it hurt.

It felt like something tore at it, tore at something so far gone that it was a sealed wound being reopened by claws and fingers, tearing the wound open.

_Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Barnes._

It hurt, physically, mentally, emotionally. The burn of the tearing was freezing, a cold seering feeling and it was hurting so deep, so sadly. It drew a tear, but it didn’t fall. It kept it there, tried holding it at bay. It didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel, it didn’t want any of this. It didn’t even know why it was on the verge of tears or why it was hurting so much. It had no answers.

_“Why does it hurt,”_

It was so deeply in pain, but none of it was physical. It was inside, deep inside and it couldn’t figure out if it needed attention for it. If it could somehow call in the Lab Coats. It was frozen. It wasn’t possible.

_“You’re in pain? Are you hurt? D’you need a hospital or something?”_

The voice, soft, gentle, kind… comforting. There was something about it, something familiar, yet not. It was deeper, it wasn’t sure. Older?

_“There’s something wrong. Something inside,”_

It didn’t know why it was trying to explain. It shouldn’t. Its pain was something it got over itself and it wasn’t something it should be telling others. It was a weakness.

_“Is it physical?”_

The voice was concerned, the voice sounded worried. Concern and worry were unnecessary. It didn’t need it. The Head regularly told it that feelings were useless, unneeded for a Weapon, from it and for it.

_“A mission. A face. It hurts,”_

_“He said a name and it… it hurts,”_

Howard Stark. He was still there, staring at it, still hurt and betrayed. Why? Why those two? And the same name, still repeating, still prying open a wound inside of it. It internally whined, the tear breaking its resolve and falling down its cheek, freezing against its face

_“Emotional pain,”_

The voice understood. The voice's tone, it understood. Why would it understand? How?

_“I-, uh… I’m sorry-, for all this pain you’ve gone through,”_

The voice is Sorry? It didn’t understand.

_“Every time I’ve heard your voice, I’ve heard the pain and loneliness and how much the World must hurt you-...”_

The world. The voice thought the world hurt it. Again, it didn’t understand how the voice could understand this, how it seemed to understand how much darkness was inside it..

_“I wanna fix your Soul,”_

A Weapon had no Soul. An Asset had no Soul. It was told over and over that it had no Soul. Why did the voice think it did? Even after being told by it itself.

_“I don’t-... have one,”_

_“You do. I know you do. You feel. Even if it’s Hurt, you still feel something and you’d need a Soul for that,”_

It-... it didn’t. It didn’t have a Soul. Not after all this time. It had no Soul. He didn’t have a Soul. It had nothing. It didn’t have a Soul.

_“I’m gonna fix your Soul, you understand?”_

_“I’m gonna fix it. Hold onto mine until then,”_

The voice sounded adamant like it would do it. Like it would fix its Soul. A soul it didn’t have. How could it fix something that wasn’t there?


	2. Chapter 2

\---------- Clint’s Twenty-Five// 1996

It was drawn from the ice again, years having gone by again, according to its body clock. It didn’t matter, it never mattered. Time was a fleeting concept to a weapon regularly set up in a frozen tank. There was never anything it could do but wait, and wait, and wait. Though, the voice. It liked hearing the voice. It was only gentle, soft, kind, comforting and it was the one thing it looked forward to anymore. And the promise, the promise of its soul being fixed, how adamant it was that it was going to fix something it didn’t have. 

… it liked.  _ Liked. _ Why did it like? Why did it decide to like. It shouldn't. It’d be reprimanded if the Head found out.

It was cleaned up, washed, redressed and checked over by the Lab Coats, a few cutting its hair since it was longer again. It was shaved and sent off to the chair, being directed through the halls for the umpteenth time. It didn’t remember the halls, didn’t remember the way. The chair was to blame. It was pain. It hurt. It did something to its memory. It remembered small bits about it when it had time while in the ice. Things slowly came back and they were gone again. It was the chair.

It was sat down and wiped, the pain steering through it and burning it from the inside out, screams leaving it.

It was sent on a mission with a team, STRIKE. A new group, a team of handlers, the youngest being a kid. Brock Rumlow. Another Jack Rollins. They were the newest.

It killed, a modified rifle in hand. It killed a family, a man, a wife, two children. No witnesses. Its parameters were no witness, killed in their own home. STRIKE would make it look like a breaking and entering, home invasion. 

It was taken back, weapons taken from it and was sent back into the base. It headed straight for the Head and was praised and then yelled at, being sent back to the Labs to be checked over. It was stripped, washed, checked and then sent into the ice. A cold shudder ran up its spine, a feeling of anticipation. The box wasn’t wanted. It was set back in, cold taking over and it was left alone, the lights going out, the cold keeping it in place and it was alone completely, the cold engulfing it in sleep. 

It killed. It killed. Murdered… again? It was familiar, killing was familiar. It’d killed before? 

Faces, new ones added to a list of the ones that started haunting it again. The faces were in its head, staring at it, blaming it. Calling it a killer, reminding it that it’d killed what seemed to be innocent lives… children. They were innocent. The Wife, just as innocent. The target… he’d been a bank manager, Shield. Shield was bad… right? It was told that Shield was competition, the bad. It killed a bad guy… with an innocent family. Killing was familiar, but killing innocents. Kids. It felt...

_ “-Wrong,” _

It frowned in the freezing cold. It did a wrong thing. It felt wrong. But it couldn’t question the Head. It would be reprimanded. The chair. It would be sent to the chair. The chair was pain, and punishment. It didn’t want it.

_ “Innocents,” _ it frowned harder.  _ “Dead innocents,” _

_ “No one’s innocent, man,” _

The voice, calm, soft, deeper. It was older. It liked it, the return of the voice. Not as kind anymore, but stronger, grittier. Aged.

_ “Kids,” _ it repeated from its thoughts.  _ “Little kids, one was a toddler,” _ It hurt just saying it, thinking it was even harder. It hurt, hurt something in its chest, made it feel heavy and it could feel the sliver of a burn in the corner of its eye at re-thinking of the kill. A Bullet, a baby…  _ “I killed kids…” _ the wetness leaked from its eyes, running down its frozen cheek and becoming ice too.

_ “Why?” _

Guarded, the voice was a little guarded, but no judgement was heard. It was still listening and smooth. Just guarded.

_ “An order,” _ it answered.

It swallowed against its dry throat as another tear slipped its eye and ran down its cheek and freeze. It killed kids. And it couldn’t fight. It was changed after the chair. It took orders without second guessing or questioning. It wasn’t meant to do either. It listened like a puppet on strings. It was a stringed puppet.

_ “Did you want to?” _ the voice asked, still guarded, but still smooth and soft.  _ “Did you want to kill them?” _

No, it didn’t. It got time to think, to think in the box of ice and thinking… No, it didn’t want to kill them. Killing the kids made it cry. Made it hurt. Its chest was hurting, really bad, aching, throbbing. It was heavy and made it tear up.

_ “No,” _ it replied softly, a small crack in its voice. It let a tear run down its cheek, another swiftly following.

_ “You’re not alone,” _ the voice sounded sympathetic, like it knew what it was talking about. Did it know? Did it know what it was like to kill innocents? Did it know the faces? The haunting faces that reminded it every second it was stuck in the Ice box?

It remembered something, the voice reminded it of what it continued saying when it heard the voice. Soul. Its Soul, something the voice was so adamant it had. It wasn’t human, it had no Soul. It was a weapon, weapon’s didn’t have Souls.

_ “I-... still have your Soul?” _ it was uncertain. It sounded uncertain because it was. It didn’t know what to think. A weapon didn’t have a Soul, but the voice was sharing its Soul with it. How? Why?

_ “That’s right. And I’m still trying to fix yours,” _

It didn’t-... have a Soul. How could the voice fix something it didn’t have. It was impossible. Weapon’s didn’t have Souls. It was a weapon.

_ “What’s your favourite colour?” _ the voice then asked and it stopped, its thoughts pausing. It was confused for a moment, a frown drawings across its face in question.

_ “Favourite… colour?” _ the frown deepened. It-... it didn’t have one. It didn’t have  _ favourites. _ It wasn’t made for that. It didn’t  _ like, _ it wasn’t meant to…. It wasn’t  _ allowed _ to like or have favourites.

_ “Yeah…” _ it didn’t answer for a moment. It wanted to think about it, but it knew that it would be punished and reprimanded for  _ liking _ and having a  _ favourite _ anything.  _ “Wanna get back to me on that?” _

\---------- Clint’s Thirty// 2001

A favourite colour? It didn’t want to think about it, it was be punished. Why wasit still thinking about it? 

The lights in the Lab switched on, streaming through the small, frosty window in the Ice Box. They were waking it up. The cold started melting, ice falling and breaking. White or light Blue, they were not its favourite colour. Too Cold, reminded it of the ice. And of the Lab Coats that prepared it and checked it after waking it up.

_ “I don’t like white or light blue,” _

_ “That makes two of us. Reminds me of the Cold,” _ the voice chuckled. It had the same thought. The Cold, did the voice hate the cold too?

Brown and black. Not those. They reminded it of the base, the gear it was meant to wear and the weapons, the guns and knives it carried. The bullets that were set into the magazines for its missions.

_ “Brown and Black. I don’t like them,” _

_ “Yeah, too dark, huh?” _

Gold, bronze, silver. Not them either. They reminded it of the chair. It stared at it, watching it as it was directed over. The colours scared it. Made it want to back up and shrink away. They were not good colours. It didn’t like them.

_ “Gold, bronze and silver, no,” _

_ “Too metal for my taste,” _

Red… were scared it. It saw a bright red when it was in pain. The chair making it scream in pain whenever it was sat in it. The Star, the star on its shoulder. It was red. It reminded it that it was Soviet, a Soviet Weapon. Reminded it of the blood it spilled, innocents and not. Red was blood, pain, hurt. It didn’t like Red. Red hurt.

_ “Red…” _

_ “The way you say it sounds like you don’t like it,” _

_ “I don’t,” _

_ “Alright, Red’s off the list,” _

Yellow, too bright. Like the lights that were forced into its eyes during check ups before and after a mission.

_ “I don’t like yellow,” _

_ “Yeah, it’s too ‘In your face’ for me,” _

Blue…. It reminded it of something, something it didn’t like. Or something it didn’t really like, but came to like… a  _ memory… _ a uniform. One it saw itself in and one it saw another in.

_ “Blue is… I don’t know,” _

_ “A bit neutral?” _

_ “No, I-... it reminds me of something I can’t really remember,” _

_ “Alright, I getcha,” _

Purple…. Purple? 

_ “Purple…?” _

_ “I love Purple. That would be MY favourite colour,” _ something about hearing the voices favourite is Purple made it think of the colour as something nice. It’d put a colour to the voice.

… Green. Forests, trees, bushes, clothes. Sleeping in green tents, in the grass. Something Green.

_ “... Green,” _

_ “That’s more like it. You sound a little happier,” _

_ “I… like Green,” _

_ “See? You have a Soul and it’s beautiful Green,” _

Its Soul was Green? It huffed, an odd sensation drawing at one corner of its lips.

\---------- Clint’s Thirty-Five// 2006

It hurt, it screamed in pain and was blank again. It was ordered, given a file and read it fast, memorizing the details and parameters. Not Witnesses, look like an accident. It took the file, returned it to the handlers and headed out, weapons at the ready for it.

A fast kill, easy target. In plain sight. It killed the man and his group of friends. The STRIKE team made it look like an accident once it killed them. It was then returning to the base, the truck moving fast and off the radar.

Not long later, they returned and it was praised and yelled at, it for something that the Head continuously ranted about, something it’d failed to do during clean up. Clean up wasn’t in its parameters. That was the STRIKE team’s job.

It was yelled at and taken to the Labs to be checked over, blood drawn, scans. And it was directed back towards the ice box. It stared as it was forced to step into it. It was familiar, like a few others things, but it didn’t comment. It didn’t talk. It wasn’t meant to unless spoken to. And even then, it was only a ‘Yes Sir’ in Russian, or a ‘Ready to comply’. 

It stepped into the ice, the door closing behind it and it was cold. Freezing, white and light blue. The ice. It didn’t like the colour. Too cold.

It felt the cold take over, drawing up its limbs, freezing it in place, the tiny window frosting. Its metal arm freezing and frost covering it. It was stuck. It didn’t like… the colour. Light blue, white, ice, cold. It didn’t like it…  _ didn’t like it. _

_ “I don’t like Ice blue or white,” _ it reminded it of the voice, the question it couldn’t really remember. Favourite colour? It’d asked that, right?

It mentioned it more to itself that it didn’t like the colours.

_ “Nah, not a fan either,” _ the voice replied and it calmed it slightly. The voice was still there, still alive for it.  _ “Remember your favourite colour,” _

Its favourite colour? It had one? Did the voice know it? The chair must’ve taken it away from it.

_ “My favourite colour?” _ it asked out of curiosity. Hesitant that the voice would reprimand it for being curious. It was never allowed to be curious. Questions weren’t meant to be asked.

_ “Green,” _ but the voice was soft, kind, gentle. It gave it its answer and it felt the odd yet welcome tug at the corner of its lips.  _ “Remember that I said that your Soul was a beautiful Green?” _

An echo. It… remembered, something that was said. A Green Soul.

_ “Yeah, I do,” _ it remembered, it did, it really did…  _ “Thank you,” _

_ “No need to thank me. This is what a Soulmate’s for,” _

_ “A Soulmate?” _


	3. Chapter 3

\---------- Clint’s Forty-one// 2012// Post-Avengers

It hadn’t been brought out in a while, much longer in the ice than it was usually. It stood there, cold colder than ever. The lights were on, but it was still there. The Lab coats were gravitating around the room, checking it over through the window and the stats that light up on the screen beside the icebox. 

It was anxious, anticipating when or if it’d be pulled from the cold to work, to be sent to kill, another face or faces to add to the plethora that haunted it. But as time passed, they didn’t open the box. They didn’t pull it out for a job, for orders, they left it in. Something was wrong, or something had them all working harder, or something put them on edge and they were re-checking data.

_ “What’s your favourite colour?” _

The voice. It swallowed, feeling warmer inside at hearing it. It missed the voice. It hadn’t spoken up recently, had said anything in a few weeks. It’d been worried.

_ “I-...Green?” _

It replied with a little pride. It remembered, but only because it hadn’t be wiped since the last time the voice spoke to it. It remembered, it remembered the talks. It had more time to try and memorize what was said, what it remembered from when the voice was young…  _ share my Soul. _

_ “You remembered,” _

Even the voice sounded a little happier at this, some pride in the tone. It was glad. It felt like it reached some kind of achievement, something that was finally a good thing.

_ “They haven’t wiped my mind… yet,” _ it replied, stating a fact that dropped its mood slightly. It couldn’t take away the warmth it felt from remembering and that the voice was happy it remembered.  _ “They haven’t stopped the cold to send me on a mission,” _

There was a really long pause, silence overcoming it and it was worried until it heard a noise, soft, like a breath.

_ “They ice you,” _ it sounded resigned, but like… like it thought about it and it’d just confirmed the thought, an answer that the voice was hoping was wrong.  _ “Tell me about what they do,” _

It wasn’t sure what compelled the voice to ask, but it figured that it wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t change anything. The voice was in its head. A Soulmate… a friend in the Soul? And it… it was adamant that it had one, so it thought that the voice was from inside of its body, its head, maybe if it had a Soul, then there. The concept was odd and it didn’t really understand. It wasn’t in its programming.

_ “Freeze… unfreeze… wipe my mind… send me on a mission… freeze… unfreeze,” _

It repeated over and over, the actions, the thoughts, it was a long repeat over time and it was stuck in the horrible loop of unending ache and pain.

_ “They wipe you… brainwashing?” _

The voice knew. It had a hint of something in its tone, darker. It knew something about the subject. It stood there cold in the ice and focused on it, listening, wanting to listen harder.

_ “Yeah,” _

It answered simply, hearing the soft breath again. There was something there, the way it sounded. It  _ knew _ what it had been through, or had an idea of what it’d been through. It had experience maybe? 

_ “I think-uh… I think I might know how you feel, in a miniscule way,” _ It  _ KNEW, _ the voice knew. It’d been through-... No. It didn’t like it. It didn’t like that-... the voice knew from experience, that wasn’t good. It didn’t want the voice to know.  _ “Something happened recently and I was under a guys mind-control,” _ -....No.

It was quiet for a moment, it’s insides, its chest, heating up slightly. It was… angry? It felt like bringing pain to the one that hurt the voice, the one that put the voice through something similar to what it’d been through.

_ I’ll kill whoever it did it to you. I’ll make them feel pain, everlasting, until they beg for death and then keep going. They’ll FEEL pain. “I’m sorry,” _

It decided against saying what it had been thinking, feeling. It wanted to hurt, but it didn’t. It wanted to not hurt and it didn’t want to show that side of it to the voice. The voice only deserved the good. All the good. It was always better when the voice was there, it wanted to return the favour.

_ “No one should have to go through that… and not for as long as you have, and definitely not you,” _

The voice sounded… sad… shaky. Was it crying? It sounded like it was, it sounded like itself when it was in tears before, when it talked to the voice and was crying. It was hurt, the voice was hurt.

_ “Don’t cry… please,” _

It swallowed thickly, feeling the light burn at the corner of its eye. It didn’t want the voice to be sad. It was always happy. Happy suited the voice. He wanted the voice to be happy...

…  _ He? _

It stood there, a frown drawing at its frozen brow.

_ “Sorry, I-... It just makes me pissed that a guy like you had to go through this for years. I was Five!, and you were going through all of that,” _

The voice was angry… for it. The voice cared for it. It was sad and angry for it and-... it couldn’t bring itself to say anything. It paused, a tear running down its cold cheek. It was thankful, it was grateful. The voice cared, cared enough to feel for it. It’d been there since it was Five, so young and innocent and all these years, it was there for it.

_ “Don’t be sorry. I should be-,” _

\---------- Clint’s Forty-Three// 2014// Post-Winter Soldier

It was so wrong, it was all wrong. Memories were flooding him, hurting, giving him headache after headache to the point that he was rocking back and forth in his recently acquired safehouse. Steve, the Captain, the faces, the voices. The waking up in freezing cold sweats because he thought he was being drawn from the ice, time after time. 

It panted fast, heartbeat breaking against its ribs. He sobbed, head tilted down and it was trying to catch its breath, half too tired, half alert. It lifted its head and glanced around fast in the dark. No one was there, he was alone. The room was empty.

Captain Rogers, Steve Rogers. He knew him. He was there, at the forefront of his mind. He knew him. He knew everything about him, but didn’t. It was like it wasn’t even his memory. The man knew him in return, called him a name that was familiar, but not. Was it his memory? Was it really his name? What was it...

It sat there on the mattress, staring at the darkness in the room. It wasn’t as cold, but it was as lonely as the icebox. It sobbed again, shifting back to press against the wall, all sides covered now that it was wedged into the corner. It didn’t feel safe. It wasn’t safe. This wasn’t a safe house.

_ “Help me,” _ he thought sadly, shakily as more sobs came on, tears running from eyes to cheeks to jaw. He was cold, alone and he wasn’t safe. He was on the run and he just wanted warmth, to feel safe, as safe as he could.

_ “Don’t worry, I’m here,” _ the voice...

It was back in the box, the cold around him, but… it was the voice and he felt warm, warm while back in the ice box. He shakily smiled, a small curve in his lips and he continued to cry.

\---------- Clint’s Forty-Five// 2016// During-Civil War

Bucky was watching from the very back, standing behind the car they’d arrived in, Wilson ahead and Steve even further ahead, closer to the white van that showed up not too long ago, the Scarlet Witch and Hawkeye having climbed out and started talking to Steve. The Witch continuously glanced over to him, and he could see the tension in her shoulders whenever she did. She was edgy about him, though he could’ve cared less. He wanted to get this over with. He wanted to go back into hiding, to just avoid everything. He’d had enough.

_ “I can almost FEEL you brooding,” _ the voice. He huffed silently, keeping the small smile from his face. The voice was the only thing he looked forward to anymore. It was the only constant in his life and he trusted it. He liked hearing it.

_ “I’m not brooding,” _ he shook his head subtly and looked away towards the fenced off windows in the car-lot, a light breeze blowing in. They were pretty high up, out of sight.

_ “Well NOW you’re not. I saw that Almost-smile,” _ Bucky stopped, eyes widening a tad and he lowered his gaze, posture now fully shifting to alert and guarded. The voice could see him. He’d figured out a while ago that the voice wasn’t actually inside of him like he’d thought when he was still a puppet or when he was alone and broken in almost every place he chose to hide out, but-... the voice was there somewhere, he could see Bucky.

_ “What?” _ he asked, maybe thinking that the voice would give some information as to where he was. Or would maybe at least hint at it so that Bucky would try to find him. He didn’t like being watched, especially when he couldn’t see the one watching him.

_ “You heard me,” _ the voice played coy and he frowned harder, keeping his eyes on the fenced window before glancing back towards the group, where the new recruit was babbling away in front of Steve, practically fanboying on the spot. He looked between the males in the group, from Steve to Lang to Hawkeye to Sam and they didn’t seem to have their attention on him, and he knew that Steve and Sam weren’t the voice. 

_ “You’re watching me,” _ he stated as he looked around, now over his shoulder to skim his eyes over the car-lot, in case they were somewhere out of his field of vision when his attention was on the group. Yet, no one was there. The voice said nothing for a while as he continued eyeing the lot.

_ “What’s Hawkeye’s real name…” _ he quirked a brow at that and continued surveying the area, eyes focused and senses sharp.

_ “Clint-...” _ he stated lowly, returning his gaze to the group slowly and then it hit him. The name… Clint was shortened, a shorter version of- _ “Clinton…” _ the voices name. He remembered the child giving him that name, introducing himself as Clinton.

He snapped his eyes to the Archer, staring with a mix of emotions, scepticism being one of those. Bucky stared long and hard at the man until he saw the man’s eyes turn to him, a smirk on his face and he knew for a fact that it wasn’t there because of something that was said, that smirk was for  _ him! _

_ “What’s your favourite colour?” _ and that confirmed it. He continued to stare, swallowing thickly against his dry throat and it was as if he was moving on autopilot, his legs moving on their own. He rounded the car, dismissing the stare he got from Sam as he passed by and headed straight for the Archer, who only grinned in return.

“Bucky?” he heard Steve question just as Bucky reached out and laced his arms around the Archers back and shoulder, Hawkeye-... Clint doing the same with much less stiffness than Bucky. “Clint?” Steve then asked the Archer.

“Long story, Cap,” the man muffled against his shoulder, Bucky’s face half buried in the crook of the man’s neck and shoulder.

\---------- Clint’s Forty-Seven// 2018// Infinity War

Clint waited a second for the doors to whoosh open, his hand reaching up to his face to rub the sleep from his tired eyes. It was late, really late. It was night. About four in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. So he’d headed to the one place in Wakanda that he knew would ease him, calm his wrecked nerves, Bucky’s room. 

He stepped in and didn’t switch the lights on, just leaving them off. He watched the human-sized container, Bucky asleep inside. Still and silent, almost like a statue. But he could see him breathing. Clint stepped over to the could straight ahead of the tube, dropping to sit on the used couch where a blanket and pillow were messily folded up. He showed up there regularly, Steve too sometimes, but he never slept in there.

_ “Wish I was you right now,” _ he huffed as he shifted to lie down across the couch, hands entangling behind his head, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

_ “Doubt that,” _ Clint was immediately happy when he heard Bucky’s gritty and deep reply. He was awake in his slumber. From what bucky told him, it was a lot like the box he’d been forced to stay in when he was in Hydra, but it was calmer, cooler, lighter. Clint figured that maybe he meant it was a better place. He felt safe in there, like he felt safe with Clint.

_ “You’re actually gettin’ sleep,” _ he internally chuckled, hearing the internal scoff from Bucky. They were completely linked, mind and body. Bucky knew what a Soulmate was and he’d accepted it after thorough research. Though even then, he said that he loved Clint’s voice being there. And that sold Clint on wanting to permanently be his.

_ “Not really a choice,” _ Bucky said back with a bit of a resigned tone and clint sighed, the same kind of emotion feeding through into the sound.

_ “You had a choice,” _ Clint stated softly and turned his head towards the tube, staring at the breathing figure inside. He looked a little different from when they first iced him. His hair was longer, his stubble had grown a little and he even looked well rested, which was a good thing in Clint’s book. He knew all too well how much sleep this guy had gotten since he escaped Hydra. None, barely any.

_ “I didn’t want to hurt anyone… especially not you,” _ Bucky replied softly, but with confidence, truth to his words. Clint wasn’t worried about that. The man had been through too much and deserved at least the rest of his life, and thensome, to relax. He deserved so much better.

_ “You couldn’t hurt me,” _ the Archer replied with just as much confidence and truth. There was no way that Bucky could hurt him, ever. There was no way. Whenever Clint was upset, or hurt, it was never because of Bucky. It was impossible for him to hurt him.

_ “Say that the next time someone triggers the Soldier,” _ he bit back with a sharp edge to his tone at just mentioning the Soldier. He hated that side of him and Clint could relate. He hated that side that Loki brought out in him.

_ “Still wouldn’t hurt me,” _ Clint smirked, turning over onto his side so that he could stare at Bucky without straining his neck muscles.  _ “James, the only way you could’ve hurt me is if you rejected our connection. And you didn’t,” _ he announced with so much feeling to his voice, warmth flowing between their bond from Clint and he smiled softly, imagining Bucky’s.

_ “Wait until I get outta here,” _ he replied quietly, a shake to his tone like he was on the verge of tears and it brought one to his own eye.

_ “I waited forty years for you, I’ll gladly wait another forty and more,” _ Clint would wait forever. He would wait longer than physically possible for this man.  _ “You still have my Soul and that wont ever change,” _

_ “And you still have mine, fixed or not,” _ it was fixed, or almost completely fixed, Clint could feel it. It was almost whole. Bucky was feeling, was alive, was loved and wanted, he was better and happier. The man was safer than he’d ever been, both physically and mentally.

_ “I’ll work on fixing it for the rest of my life, Buck,” _ Clint smiled wider, still watching the man inside the tube.

“I love you,” he said out loud, swallowing back happy tears.

**_ End _ **


End file.
